


destined for

by unrequited_heartbreak



Series: sav's dreamsmp drabbles [1]
Category: DreamSMP
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Mild Blood, Vignette, Wings, i wrote this in a haze and decided on a whim to post it, quangst, really small mention of alcohol, tommy and quackity go through it but poetically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27795079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequited_heartbreak/pseuds/unrequited_heartbreak
Summary: He’s grounded, he’s out of his nest, he’s every metaphor for a bird with broken wings spoken over and over and woven until they form dark eyes and freckles and thousand dollar smiles. Quackity is, fundamentally, an underdog.//Tommy’s not good with words. He’s not good. He’s war hardened and soft and mature and juvenile. He’s young. He’s loud. He’s funny. He's hurt.a dreamsmp based little scrap of angst! its about tommy and quackity and how their character arcs are kind of fucked! poor lads deserve much better
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & TommyInnit
Series: sav's dreamsmp drabbles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2047190
Comments: 6
Kudos: 131
Collections: Other Fanfoms





	destined for

**Author's Note:**

> praying that i'll write something longer soon! my motivation is a roulette wheel 
> 
> hope you enjoy :D

Quackity thinks maybe he might be destined to be overlooked.

He tries to stand out. He tries to be funny, and charming, and well spoken, and good. He laughs with his chest and works til his hands ache, signs paper after paper and tries, desperately, to keep the country from going to shit. He tries to ignore the past, and to be honest, a fair chunk of the present. 

The problem lies in that trying doesn’t equal succeeding. 

This is nothing new. He learned as much as a child, when the wings on his back stubbornly refused to grow and his parents exchanged looks over untouched plates. He limped back home one afternoon, knees bloody and wings bent and eyes wet, and he could feel that rule humming under his tongue. He bound his wings to his back under his jacket as soon as he moved out. The humming never went away.

He’s grounded, he’s out of his nest, he’s every metaphor for a bird with broken wings spoken over and over and woven until they form dark eyes and freckles and thousand dollar smiles. Quackity is, fundamentally, an underdog. When he got a taste of power, he scrambled after it like a starved animal. Manburg promised fresh grapes and juice dripping down his chin.

He ran right into Schlatt’s arms. He made an image, he made a case for himself, he shared it with another party to make things fair. They won and he wanted to make things fair, right? Maybe he got a little lost in the beginning, but once Schlatt got bored and started spending all of his time coughing up cigarette smoke and hissing fumes into Quackity’s face, he was pulled down to earth again. Icarus, tangled up in the devil’s curved horns.

Maybe things will never be fair. But at the very least, a grounded bird is good for Schlatt’s image. At least no extra money is spent tailoring suits. At least Dream doesn’t have to clip wings that don’t work. 

(“Oh, Alex…” His mother says, eyes wide and fingers trembling. 

There’s bandages sprawled across the sink in front of her, wrapped around his ribs. Bloodied water, broken feathers.

Quackity’s wings twitch. He says nothing.)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Tommy is destined for sacrifice.

He’s so young. Painfully so, even, the youngest out of all of them, and even as he makes a show out of being a man, being mature and strong and tall, he knows in some gnarled oak corner of his mind that he’s a child. It’s a weird dynamic, to be young and be flawed and to know that. Knowing means something, but it doesn’t shave away the baby fat still clinging to his cheeks. 

(He knows more than he lets on in general, as much as Wilbur talks over him and Techno talks down to him and Tubbo barely talks to him and Phil doesn’t talk to him at all and—)

He’s complicated, difficult, in that way that school counselors talk about troubled teenagers who steal beers and drive without permits and are bailed out of jail. Quackity says that they’re both broken. He talks about trauma, or something, and it’s definitely something Phil told him. Tommy doesn’t say anything, then.

He’s—he can’t—he doesn’t know. Words don’t come easy to him, they never have, one more thing out of sync with his brothers. He can swear and he can beg and he can scream. He can choke on feelings that bubble over and just can’t fucking leave his head. He can cry.

He can cry. That’s a constant. He can lose, he does lose.

His discs, and his friends, and his family, and his pets, and his home, they all peel away like petals to reveal him at the center, perpetually alone. 

Tommy’s not good with words. He’s not good. He’s war hardened and soft and mature and juvenile. He’s young. He’s loud. He’s funny. He’s hurt.

(“What are you once they all leave, Tommy?” Techno muses, wiping blood off of his brother’s cheekbone with a damp cloth, “You’re a savior, but what is a savior with no one to save?”

Tommy is quiet. The moment is too tender for yelling and he fears if he opens his mouth that’s all that will come out.)


End file.
